The Ascendant: A Thriller

by Drew Chapman

  Shane closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them in surprise. “China?”

  Garrett stood up, straightened his loosely hung tie, and smiled. “I’m going home with her tonight.”

  Shane shook his head: “No way. The yuan is tied to the dollar. We sink, China sinks. Their exports to us will go in the toilet. Why would they do it?”

  Garrett stared at Shane. He was drunk, and tottering, but even tottering Garrett radiated an arrogant self-assurance. “I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. But the Chinese are sitting on 2.7 trillion dollars in cash, so I’m guessing they’ll do just fine. See you guys tomorrow.”

  He waded across the crowded bar, weaving unsteadily between tables. He stopped short when he reached the girl at the bar. One of the hedgies was chatting her up. Garrett scowled—fucking hedgies—then elbowed his way between them. “Dude. Sorry. I was talking to her already. You’ll have to go back and sing some more with your friends.”

  The hedgie—it was the lacrosse player, and he was big, for sure—shot Garrett an angry look. “You out of your mind? I was talking to her. Fuck off, buddy.”

  Garrett smiled at the young woman. She didn’t seem particularly impressed with either of them. Garrett leaned close: “What I meant to say was, in my head I’ve been talking to you for the last hour. We’ve been having this amazing conversation. But then this joker interrupted us, and I knew I had to come to your rescue.”

  The young woman snorted a half laugh. The lacrosse player grabbed Garrett by the shoulder. “I’m gonna crack your fucking head in, asshole.”

  Garrett let himself be turned around. He looked the lacrosse player up and down. “Lemme guess. Duke. Econ major. Varsity lacrosse. Third year at Apogee Capital Group?”

  The lacrosse player gaped. “How the fuck did you know that? You been stalking me?”

  Garrett smiled. “Why would I bother stalking you? No, it was easy. Apogee Capital is four blocks away. But they’re down seventy percent on the year. Your suit is a knockoff from Hong Kong, not Kiton from Italy, and your shoes are at least two years old, which, for a hedgie, is ancient. They were hiring three years ago, but not now, so you’re a bottom-rung guy and you’ve stayed at the bottom, but you got the job because Apogee’s CEO played lacrosse at Duke, which is where your accent places you, and only a hedgie loser would sing Journey at the top of his lungs in a crowded bar.”

  The next thirty seconds were a blur to Garrett. He knew for sure the hedgie took a swing at him, and also that he was ready, so he ducked left and drove his right fist into the hedgie’s solar plexus. He’d used that move on the streets of Long Beach more times than he could count. He wasn’t the strongest guy out there, but he was quick and he was an experienced street fighter. He kicked hard at the doubled-over hedgie, then raced toward his three hedgie friends, who were crossing the bar to join in. Garrett shot a kick at the first one’s knee, putting him out of commission, then shoved the second one into the third, the two of them tumbling onto a table, sending pitchers of beer and glasses shattering to the ground. By this time the entire bar was in motion, some people running for the exits, others trying to get a better view. A few girls were shrieking as Mitty rumbled across the room to get a couple of licks in—she never missed a chance to throw a punch—but she was too late, because the hedgies were down for the count and Garrett was already out the door and onto the street, looking for an alley to sprint down and resigning himself to the fact that he was going to sleep alone tonight.

  Garrett ran for three blocks, due east, figuring the hedgies would never find him, then slowed for half a block and vomited into a trash can. He wiped his mouth clean, still tasting the hot dog he’d had for lunch but feeling better, and was cutting across Tompkins Square Park when out of the corner of his eye he saw someone following him, about a hundred yards away. He hurried across the park without looking back, then tucked around the corner of a building on Avenue B and Tenth. He waited, thirty seconds at most, then jumped out as the person who was following him turned the corner. He grinned. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

  It was the girl from the bar.

  5

  LOWER EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN, MARCH 24, 11:01 PM

  Garrett ordered two coffees, a plate of fries, and a bowl of avgolemono soup. “Two spoons for the soup,” he told the waitress at the Greek diner. “The lady will probably want to share.”

  The waitress shrugged and shuffled off to the kitchen, passing a series of travel-agency posters with pictures of whitewashed houses on stark Aegean islands. The lone other customer at the diner’s counter sipped his coffee and read a paperback.

  The girl from the bar shook her head. “Is that your dinner?”

  “Already barfed up lunch,” Garrett said. “So, yes.”

  “I’m beginning to worry about your long-term health prospects.”

  “Are we planning on knowing each other long-term?”

  The girl stared at him. “You always get into fights at bars?”

  “I’ve been in a few.”

  “You’re pretty good at it. Fighting, that is.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Why’d you follow me?”

  “To see if you were okay.”

  “And if I wasn’t, you were going to help me how, exactly? Call 9-1-1?”

  “How’d you know where that guy worked? The guy in the bar?”

  Garrett shrugged. “You heard my explanation. The clues were there if you pay attention.”

  “But most people don’t pay attention?”

  “That’s right, most people don’t. But let’s talk about you, not me. For instance, I don’t think you wanted me to notice you. I think you were spying on me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  The waitress brought two coffees. Garrett dumped sugar and cream in his. He stirred the coffee and thought about the question. He studied the girl from the bar, her face, her clothes, then went back to stirring his coffee. After about thirty seconds of thinking, he said, “Two possibilities. One, you’re desperate to fuck me. But even at my most arrogant I would say that’s remote. I don’t get that vibe off of you, which is a shame, because I could rock your world if you gave me the chance.”

  “And two?”

  “This morning my boss called the Treasury Department and told them I figured out the Chinese were dumping U.S. bonds in a big way. The Treasury Department told the CIA or the NSA or some such spook agency—no, wait, gotta be military, you seem military, the way you sit, your seriously out-of-style haircut—and they sent you here to figure out if I was an insane person or actually knew what I was talking about.”

  Captain Alexis Truffant tried not to let the surprise show on her face. Garrett had made her in less than five minutes. And with astonishing accuracy.

  Garrett smiled at her. “I’ll tell you what. How about we forget I ever mentioned possibility number two, we pretend number one is right, and you and I head back to my apartment, which is just around the corner?”

  Alexis sipped her coffee. “How did you know?”

  Garrett leaned back, shrugged. “Like you said, I pay attention. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The dollar didn’t sink today, so Avery must have made that phone call. The Fed bought up the T-bonds. You and whatever agency you work for caught wind of this. Or maybe you listened in. Avery doesn’t have some secure phone line. And that freaked you out, ’cause what China did could be seen as an act of war, right? I mean, it’s pretty aggressive. Maybe there’s a million Chinese infantrymen landing at Zuma Beach right this second. All doing kung fu in the sand, like in a Tarantino movie. That would fucking rock, right? Anyway, I wouldn’t have put any of it together if you hadn’t followed me, but I should have guessed, because you were watching me pretty intensely at McSorley’s, and, honestly, I’ve never, ever gotten lucky at that bar. The chicks there just want to drink. And none of them are as hot as you.”

  Alexis leaned forward. “The act-of-war idea. You just came up with it? Right now?”
>
  The waitress brought a plate of fries and a bowl of avgolemono soup and set them down on the table. Garrett fork-speared a fry, dunked it in ketchup, then looked at Alexis.

  “You have a name?”

  “Alexis Truffant.”

  “Army, right? First lieutenant? Maybe captain?”

  “The latter.”

  “Impressive. Shooting up the ranks. You save someone’s life? Cap a bunch of bad guys in Fallujah?”

  Alexis shook her head no. “I just show up for work on time.”

  “Yeah, right,” Garrett snorted dubiously. “So it’s the act of war you’re interested in? You work for some kind of military intelligence division?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Gimme a fucking break, Captain Truffant.” Garrett spit out her rank. “You think I give a shit what bunch of monkeys you work for?”

  “I’m sure you don’t. But I can’t tell you, all the same.”

  Garrett laughed. “Military people. All the same. Rules. Regulations. Just following orders. Just killing people. Launch Predator drones. Whoops. Collateral damage. Whoops. Friendly fire. Just remember, you followed me. I didn’t spy on you. I didn’t go knocking on your door.”

  Alexis watched as Garrett snarled, stabbed more french fries and chewed them angrily. His face was suddenly flushed. “Is this about your brother?”

  This time it was Garrett’s turn to fall silent. He stared hard at the food on the table in front of him, jaw set, lips quivering. He stood abruptly, rocking the table and spilling his cup of coffee. He glared down at Alexis, who was still seated.

  “You know nothing about me. About my brother. About my life. Nothing.” He threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and marched out of the diner.

  6

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND, MARCH 24, 11:55 PM

  General Kline’s computer screen in his home office showed that the incoming call was from an unsecured cell phone. It was five minutes before midnight. He had been reading through a packet of intelligence briefs on Chinese intentions toward Taiwan, and now he couldn’t fall asleep. There were 250,000 People’s Liberation Army regulars sitting on the coast of mainland China, ready to make the ninety-mile boat ride to unite the two Chinas. And the U.S. Pacific Fleet was not far away. He answered on the second ring.

  “Kline here.”

  “I’m calling from my cell phone. It’s a personal line.” It was Alexis. Kline could hear the street sounds of New York City in the background. She was using no armed services formalities—no yes sirs or no sirs—as he had taught them to do when in the field.

  “Understood.”

  “I met him.”

  “You talked to him?” Kline was surprised. “Your directive was to not make contact . . .”

  “I had no choice. He figured out who I was pretty quickly.”

  “Okay. So be it. Give me the rundown.”

  “Angry. Very. Aggressive. Confrontational. Unafraid.”

  Kline pulled out a notebook and scribbled down what she told him. She would be insightful—Alexis Truffant could read people. It was part of what made her so valuable to Kline. “Unafraid how?”

  “He got into a bar fight with four guys. All bigger than him.”

  “Who won?”

  “He did. Handily.”

  “Okay. I guess I like that.”

  “He’s also smart. Observant. He pegged who I was almost immediately. And who I worked for. And how I knew about him. With a minimum of clues.”

  “No shit?” Kline said, a smile creasing his face. “He knew our company name?”

  “No. Generalities. But he was close. Very close. About me. About how the information was transferred. And why. He even guessed at the thesis you and I talked about in the hallway. About why this was happening.”

  “He knew the country and why they might be doing it?”

  “Yes. And he clearly had just come up with the idea on the spot. His ability to detect underlying patterns is off the charts.”

  “What else?”

  “Arrogant. Emotional. Volatile. He likes to drink. And he likes women. A lot.”

  Kline chuckled. He could only imagine how Garrett Reilly must have come on to Alexis. He would have paid to see that. “I like to drink. And I like women.”

  “Then the two of you will get along great.” Kline could hear an edge in her voice. He ignored the attitude—he deserved that one.

  “Okay. He could be a match. Any drawbacks?”

  There was a brief silence on the line. Kline could hear an ambulance somewhere in the New York night. “Yes,” Alexis said, “and it’s a big one.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “He hates the United States military. With a passion.”

  7

  MOFFAT COUNTY, COLORADO, MARCH 25, 8:55 AM

  Matt Sawyer downshifted his Ford F-150 pickup truck into second gear to climb around the last switchback of Colorado County Road 55 before he approached the mine. To his right was a thousand-foot drop down Henderson Canyon, lined with pine trees. To his left was the jagged flank of Tanks Peak, still snowcapped, clouds breaking against its summit on their journey east across the country. It was beautiful, but Sawyer didn’t care. He took a deep breath, gunned the engine, and passed the last stand of trees before the fenced-in parking lot.

  The first thing he saw were the half dozen men holding homemade signs standing in a knot by the edge of the lot. They’d been there three weeks ago, when Sawyer started the job, and they were still there today. They wore hard hats and lined denim jackets. They turned toward the sound as his truck rumbled past, and Sawyer could see the lifeless despair in their eyes. They were protesting, but their hearts were no longer in it. One man shook a sign, and Sawyer read it briefly: “Save Our Mine. Save Our Jobs.” Yeah, Sawyer thought, good luck with that.

  The next thing he saw as he parked near the mine’s cyclone fence were the armed guards watching the protestors. There were about forty of them, some with rifles, others with handguns tucked into their holsters, all wearing visible Kevlar vests. They wore sunglasses and baseball caps, each man buff and anonymous-looking. That’s a bit of overkill, thought Sawyer. Who the hell would mess with one of those guys? But forty? Good Lord.

  Sawyer grabbed his wallet and work box and jumped out of the truck. He flashed his contractor ID to a particularly hostile-looking guard at the gate, and was halfway to the main mine building when McAfee, in his tailored gray suit, strode out to meet him. Sawyer couldn’t remember if McAfee had ever told him his first name—probably not—and hell, Sawyer didn’t really care to know it, anyway.

  “Sawyer, good morning, how are you?” McAfee said, shaking his hand. As usual, McAfee wore nothing over his suit jacket despite the high-altitude cold. Sawyer thought he might actually be a robot.

  “I’m okay, I guess,” Sawyer said, lying.

  He opened his mouth to say more but McAfee cut him off. “Good. Let’s get this over with.” He walked quickly to the mine-shaft elevator entrance, a small concrete blockhouse with a single, rusting iron door. Sawyer frowned, then followed. He had maybe two minutes to give McAfee one last pitch—somehow, he’d hoped to do it aboveground. The iron door was open, and the elevator was waiting for Sawyer. He stepped inside. McAfee stepped in with him. “I’ll inspect with you, if you don’t mind?”

  That wasn’t really a question, Sawyer thought, was it? He said, “No. Please do.”

  Sawyer closed the gate, keyed the winch engine, and started the elevator’s descent into the mine. The moment the car slipped below the surface the two men were surrounded by darkness and by sound: the mechanical grind of the cables straining overhead, and the wind being displaced below them, as they dropped three thousand feet into the earth. Dim yellow light illuminated their faces and not much else.

  Five minutes later the elevator stopped with a low crunch as they reached the main shaft of the mine. Sawyer opened the gate and stepped out. He loved being inside mines. It was still a thrill for him, one he’
d probably never get over: dark, strange, the smell of earth, the heat that grew as you descended. Other people got claustrophobic, but not him. He paused, took a breath, and turned to McAfee. It was now or never.

  “A lot of molybdenum left in these seams,” he said.

  “I’m sure there is, Mr. Sawyer.”

  “Worth a lot of money. Maybe a billion dollars.”

  McAfee squinted in the dim lamplight. Sawyer could tell he didn’t like being underground. He was trying to control his breathing, control his panic. “I wouldn’t know,” McAfee said.

  “The U.S. used to produce a quarter of the world’s supply of molybdenum. Now maybe ten percent. Without this mine that will drop to five. We’ll become a net importer of the stuff.”

  McAfee fixed Sawyer with his most lawyerly stare. Sawyer bit his lip and continued: “It’s a rare element. It’s vital. We use it in heat-resistant alloys—you know, for fighter planes, rocket engines. All kinds of high-tech stuff. It’s damn valuable.”

  “Mr. Sawyer,” McAfee said curtly. “Please check the detonators now.”

  Sawyer winced, then nodded. The conversation was officially over. He walked the length of the shaft. There were five separate branches, tributary seams that led off from the main one. Sawyer carefully checked the detonators, explosives, and cables at each spot in the mine. Everything was secure. As usual, he’d done an excellent job, even if it broke his heart to do it. He returned to McAfee, standing by the elevator, twenty minutes later.

  “Good to go,” Sawyer said.

  “Then let’s get the fuck out of here,” McAfee said. It was the first time Sawyer had ever heard him use a profanity.

  They rode up the elevator in silence. Sawyer stopped the car halfway up and primed the explosive he’d rigged in the elevator shaft. When it blew, the only channel into the mine would be destroyed. It would take a new owner many years and many millions of dollars to get back in here. In fact, it might just be impossible. That’s what McAfee had told him the new owners wanted when they hired him: Make it impossible to get back down here. Sawyer shook his head at the memory. Why had he agreed to this?